Yeah, Tokyo tomorrow… I’m ready.
(Source: japann-addicted)
“There is too much dust.
The dust comprises everything.
I touch the radiator and it’s there and it leaves a streak,
a mark on my finger, on the metal (wood?) or, whatever. During dinner
I tell the boy I like his pasta.
After, we move into his bedroom where he unzips
my pants like a magic trick.
A disappearing act.
Your body was born a circus, didn’t you know.
But nothing is wrong here. The show goes on. He tells me
I should watch porn. He tells me I don’t know
what
to
do.
His bedroom is messy. I can feel
the coins underneath his couch cushions,
but his panting is so loud
I can’t hear the opening act.
Maybe he’s had too many girls.
Maybe the world’s not dead for him,
yet. I don’t feel a thing.
There are dirty dishes stacked
up in his sink. Marvel at my
ability to ignore love-making
to want to grab
a sponge (cloth?)
and wipe up his counters.
Oh, but this is -
what? This is, well,
love. This is what they
called love. Panting moaning
screaming You should watch porn
and I tell him I don’t, I never have
and I never will.
I think licking out assholes is a dirty
thing to do. He is the kind of boy who wants
to fuck and
not
love.
He is the kind of boy
that, when you leave,
turns the couch cushions
over so when his girlfriend
gets home she won’t
see the mess he’s made. Oh,
but this is love, cut
to intermission.
We are almost
at the closing act. When she gets home
their bodies will fit
together like two puzzle pieces.
A trapeze swinger and his stuntman,
a magician and his top hat.
I want to wipe
his counters. I want to clean
the dust off. I want to tell
him I’m not his stand-in
during this circus show but he
rips my shirt off
and I
let
him.”
—
(Source: beautyisanillusion, via soleil-vert)
